


bag full of dresses and butcher's knives

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Dark!Grace, Extortion, F/M, Forced Marriage, M/M, Pregnancy, Sex, Things I Shouldn't Write, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: AU from 3x23/3x24; Red John is dead, O’Laughlin’s alive. – Van Pelt and O’Laughlin tie the knot and there are just some things, he doesn’t like about his betrothed. Like the fact she isn’t Luther Ryan Wainwright.
Relationships: Craig O'Laughlin/Luther Wainwright, Grace Van Pelt/Craig O'Laughlin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	bag full of dresses and butcher's knives

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I wrote a thing that I may or may not come back to. 
> 
> This is dark. I enjoyed writing it. If you don't like character death or manipulation, this fic really isn't for you.
> 
> Also written to fill my "forced marriage" H/C Bingo Prompt.

Two hours, prior to the wedding ceremony, Luther Wainwright gives head to the groom-to-be. Dressed in only a garter belt, as they kneel/sit in the groom’s dressing chambers, Luther makes for a mouth-watering sight and Craig O’Laughlin almost wishes he could just murder his bride-to-be just so the pleasure never ends. But he _knows_ he can’t, as his freedom (and life) very well depends on how _believable_ this entire wedding ceremony is.

Craig runs his fingers through his lover’s hair, who looks almost confounded. He supposes he would look confounded too, as they’ve never been one for pleasantries. Especially during sex. “You’ve been such a good boy, Luther. Whatever would I do without you?” Luther pulls away from his penis with a moist _pop_ , his brown eyes narrowed in frustration.

“You’re obviously going to _do_ without me,” Luther points out, bitterly and Craig sighs. “You could kill her, you know? Nobody would ask any questions and…”

“Stop,” Craig interrupts and Luther immediately falls silent. “Do not think, for a moment, that I have not considered slitting Miss Van Pelt’s throat in her sleep.” He grimaces, as he clenches his fists. “If it were not for the insurmountable amount of damning evidence, she may have against me, for the deaths of both Teresa Lisbon and Madeleine Hightower, I wouldn’t hesitate on discarding her body.” His lips curl into the ghost of a smile at the thought of Grace’s body—sad, bloated and naked—discarded on the side of the road. Vultures gorging themselves on her shriveled entrails, before choking to death on her blackened and shriveled heart. However, he does not let the thought tempt him for long. “So for now, until she stops her extortion, I shall continue along with this rouse.” Luther says nothing and Craig caresses his lover’s body, taking note of how well Luther moans when he tweaks a single nipple.

There’s a knock at the closed door and Luther, still in only his garter belt, darts toward the closet as Craig stands to welcome the ill-timed visitor. He’s almost unsurprised when Grace walks in, dressed to the nines in ivory, pearls and white, only to glance about the room as if she’s looking for something or _something_. Craig nearly chuckles. Grace Van Pelt considers herself _so_ clever for tricking a former Red John acolyte into marriage, especially upon the fortnight of his death—all thanks to Patrick Fucking Jane and a .38 revolver—but it is _he_ , who will turn the tides after she says _I do_ and moves her meager belongings into his home within the suburbs.

He’s not going to let onto his plans for her however, so instead, he indulges her by playing into her little game of manipulation. “Regardless of my feelings, toward this illicit ceremony, it _is_ bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”

Craig watches Grace cross her arms against her chest, obviously unamused. “You wouldn’t defy the _terms_ of our little agreement _,_ now would you?” Craig offers Grace a sharp smile. “I’d hate to spoil our wedding day by having my _groom_ arrested for conspiracy to commit murder. Imagine the headlines.” She almost looks _too_ smug at the idea of him serving time. In turn, he looks just as smug at the thought of her death by piercing her heart with one of her stiletto heels. 

“I wouldn’t _dare_ defy you, my love.” He moves to her and kisses her cheek, his fingers wrapping themselves so tightly around her wrist that he _knows_ she’ll have a bruise tomorrow morning. The idea of canvasing her body with bruises is enough to make him hard again and he _almost_ considers forcing her on her knees to service him, but that’s all in _good time_.

Grace smiles succinctly at him, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in her gown, before she leaves.

::::

The ceremony is almost too saccharine for his tastes. Daffodils line the pews, and the _ghastly_ pink dresses for the trio of bubblegum sweet bridesmaids nearly make him nauseous, but he does not object. Luther lingers in one of the balcony alcoves and though he’s probably _dying_ to object to the exchanging of vows, he remains passive and silent (as does everyone else), until the Priest announces them _husband and wife_. He kisses her, so fervently and without thought, that the _entire_ wedding party nearly swoons in delight at how _loving_ and _devote_ Mr. and Mrs. O’Laughlin will be.

What they _don’t_ see are the fingers that bury themselves _so tightly_ in-between the gentle curls of her up-do and her scalp, only to yank when the applause starts. Or the French-manicured nails that pierce his backside in response, drawing small rivets of blood.

“Well-played,” she mutters into his ear, later, as they’re circling the dance floor to The Police’s _Every Breath You Take._

He pushes a loose curl behind her ear, before he offers up his own succinct smile at her slight amusement of their wedding song. He leans closer, almost as if to kiss her neck, before he sings the chorus lowly to her. It still amazes him how _many_ individuals confuse the song for a love song and their wedding party is no exception to that rule. Some of them, he notes with hooded amusement, _smile_ at the idea of the “happy” couple whilst watching their steps. He feels her pulse quicken, his fingers on her wrist, as he goes to twirl her. In the sea of faces, he catches sight of Luther and can’t help but offer the man a small smile.

Luther doesn’t smile back.

“I hope you don’t plan on keeping him,” he hears Grace mutter and _because_ the idea of him without Luther Wainwright is a foreign concept, Craig “accidentally” drops Grace to the floor.

“I see you’ve found the place you belong,” Craig tells her, his voice a mere whisper.

Grace has the gumption to smirk up at him and he _almost_ considers knocking her teeth in, until he realizes—nothing says the _honeymoon period_ like smashing the teeth of your significant other in with your fist, especially an hour (or so) after the wedding.

Instead, he just helps her up and twirls her again, before his hand settles at her hip.

_I’ll be watching you…_

::::

In a different life and under much different circumstances, Craig thinks he could have grown to stomach her. Grace _is_ the perfect package (or so his FBI colleagues tell him)—and in a certain light, he supposes they’re right. She’s both beautiful and skilled in firearms, but sitting opposite of her when their schedules permit—all he can hope is that someone blows her fucking head off and her brains and sinew, paint the pavement pink.

Unfortunately for him, luck is _not_ on his side. _The carnation and devastation is far sweeter when one utilizes the virtue of patience upon their victims_ , Red John had once said to him, when Craig had asked about the continued cat and mouse games between serial killer and conman. Then again, perhaps the virtue of patience had done the fool in. Craig had never been one to pass judgment, but at the same time, he believed one should not treat their nemesis as some _rare specimen_ to be appreciated. In fact, he believed, one should just sharpen their blades and gut the individual—no questions asked.

It was a shame though he couldn’t implore _that_ method on his blushing bride, however, as it would arouse the suspicion of that brainless scarecrow, Wayne Rigsby. Craig had tolerated the oaf’s presence at their wedding ceremony, mainly out of amusement for the oaf’s grief over the loss of his _love_ and his boss, but he has absolutely no intentions of rotting in prison due to the detective skills of Bert and Ernie _or_ Grace’s continued attempts at extortion.

“Hey babe,” Craig greets, as he steps into the Serious Crimes Unit bullpen. Grace looks up at him from her desk, her lips drawing into a thin smile, before she stands and kisses him—passionately. “Ready for lunch?” Grace grabs her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, before she turns to glance at both Cho and Rigsby.

“I’ll be back later, guys.” Cho’s mono-response of _alright_ doesn’t surprise him, but Rigsby’s silence _is_ surprising. His understanding of the Wayne Rigsby/Grace Van Pelt relationship is that Wayne Rigsby _loves_ Grace Van Pelt, and that he’s always kinda been in love with the redheaded agent, while Grace has always been on the fence. Grace doesn’t seem to mind his silence, however, as she loops her arm into his and they leave. Once they’re past security and into the privacy of his tinted vehicle, Grace smirks at him and drops his arm. “Curious?”

Craig doesn’t bother to glance at her. “No, because it would mean I _care_.” He hears Grace chuckle and before he manages to start the ignition, Grace’s lips are all over his. She somehow manages to drape herself over his lap, and suddenly, he’s hard and they’re fucking in the back of his SUV. He shoves his dick _so far_ up inside of her, jerking his hips and driving his nails into her thighs, until he feels that he’s fucked her raw.

When he’s finished and feeling highly satisfied, he pinches the inside of her clit and shoves her away. “Now, get out.”

He watches her smile. “Lamb for dinner?” 

::::

The first time she’s away for the weekend—a case in some small town, he’s never heard of—he fucks Luther over his desk. On the kitchen table. On the master bed, atop Grace’s favorite purple chenille throw. He fucks Luther, until Luther simply cannot be fucked anymore.

And then, they fuck some more.

“You know what I like best about you?” Craig asks Luther, lowly, whilst straddling his bare hips and tracing his abdomen. Luther doesn’t say a word, and Craig can’t help but smile. This is _one_ of the many reasons he appreciates Luther Ryan Wainwright. “You aren’t Grace Van Pelt.” Luther blinks twice at him—their universal symbol for _may I speak_ —and Craig shakes his head. “No, you may not. You’re _much_ prettier when you’re silent, love.”

Luther’s eyes narrow and Craig chuckles.

“There’s no need to be petty, Luther,” Craig continues to talk, pinching Luther’s inner thigh. Luther moans lowly and squirms beneath him. “You’ve already said _plenty_ enough today.” Luther averts his gaze and Craig grimaces. He can understand Luther’s anger (to a certain point), but it’s also clear—Luther _needs_ a reminder of who holds all the power between them. Craig removes himself from Luther and ducks beneath the bed, before he retrieves four neckties and a red ball gag.

“I’m not…”

“You are,” Craig interrupts, restraining Luther to the bed. “You’ve forgotten how _we_ do things and that’s my fault.” He ensures the restraints are taunt against Luther’s wrists. “You’ve become insolent, Lu, and I already have _one_ insolent wife too many. Can’t have you getting any ideas, now can we?”

::::

The moment Grace slips through the front door and closes the door behind her, he slams her against the foyer wall. His fingers wrap themselves around her throat and he watches (in satisfaction) as she begins to gasp for air, her fingers attempting to pry his hands from her. He cannot help but smile. “Welcome home, _wife_ ,” he breathes into her ear, before he releases her. He watches her slide to the ground, her massaging fingers wrapped around her own throat as she braces herself against the entryway console table—showcasing the sanctity of their shared lives. “I figured I would give you the welcoming you so truly deserved, you fucking cunt.”

She stares up at him, almost smirking. “I can see you’ve finally grown a pair. Congratulations.” He doesn’t hesitate to backhand her. “I do believe prison orange will be a good color on you.”

“I’m not going to prison alone then,” he tells her, because if he goes down—so will she.

Grace’s lips part slightly. “ _He hit me, Wayne_.” He hears her sob and he rears his leg back, prepared to kick the living shit out of her. “ _He kicked me after I told him I was pregnant._ ” Craig pauses and at Grace’s small smirk, he loses his smile. “After all, only a _monster_ would hurt a pregnant woman.”

Craig glances down at her flat stomach, blinking. “You can’t be…”

“I am, Craig,” Grace tells him, as if she’s telling him the weather forecast. “Someone obviously _wasn’t_ paying attention during sex education in junior high. Only abstinence can prevent pregnancies, love.” She glances down at her nails. “Quite surprised I wasn’t pregnant last month, to be honest. You just _love_ rough sex without condoms, don’t you?”

“You lying piece of…”

Grace rolls her eyes, pulling herself up from the floor and cradling her flat stomach. “Don’t flatter yourself, _dear_.” She meets his gaze. “If I wanted to have you arrested, I could easily go to Director Bertram with the information that you killed Hightower and Lisbon in cold blood. I wouldn’t need to fake a pregnancy to garner sympathy.” He watches her shrug and instead of showing his hand (or at the very least, backhanding her again in case she is pregnant) he blinks again.

“I want to see the pregnancy test.”

Grace smiles, flashing her teeth at him, before she moves to fan three unopened pregnancy tests at him. “Would you like to watch me pee too?”

He says nothing.

::::

When he visits Grace next, he gets congratulations from Cho and stony silence from Rigsby. He flashes his teeth at them and to keep his blood pressure from skyrocketing, he imagines flossing his teeth with their intestines.

“I only wish Lisbon were here,” Grace tells them and not for the first time, since Grace’s massive bombshell, does he wish _Teresa Lisbon_ had pulled the trigger on him instead.

“She’d want you to be happy, Grace,” Rigsby tells her and Craig must keep himself from snorting, because Rigsby’s side-eye is horribly telling. It basically reads: _Lisbon would have been happier if we married, not you and her_. Of course, wherever Lisbon is (heaven, hell or in-between), he doubts she even _cares_ about the happiness of her subordinates because she’s _dead_.

He vaguely hears Grace say she’s _happy_ and he thinks with the smallest of smiles, _I can fix that_.

“Love?” Her voice interrupts his favorite daydream as of late: him slashing her into tiny pieces with a meat cleaver and feeding her to the remaining original team members of the Serious Crimes Unit.

“What?”

“Don’t you have to head back early today?” Grace asks, softly.

Craig nods and offers a suffering sigh, which isn’t exactly impossible considering current circumstances. “Paperwork.” He glances at both Rigsby and Cho. “I’m sure you both understand.” Cho nods, Rigsby doesn’t and Craig kisses Grace’s forehead and offers a secondary apology before he’s gone from the bullpen.

Ten minutes later, he’s fingering Luther’s tight hole in the back of his SUV. Luther’s eyes are shut, and his dark trousers are somewhere between the passenger seat and the trunk.

“God,” he murmurs, fingers slick with lube. “You’re perfect.”

“I can’t be too perfect,” Luther replies quietly, his eyes still shut. “You’re still fucking her, after all.”

He wants to backhand Luther, but he doesn’t.

Because the man’s right.

He’s still fucking Grace and regardless of all his dark fantasies of her demise—he doubts it’ll change anytime soon. So, instead, he cuffs Luther to the steering wheel and gags him.

If he can’t control Grace, he can sure as hell continue to control Luther.


End file.
